Nightfall (35 page)

"No," she said fiercely. "He'll kill you."

"Probably. But not before I take him out."

"I don't want you to die." It was a cry of pain, of despair, and his reaction was immediate.

His hands slid up her body, to cup her face, and his mouth covered hers in the darkness. It was a long, slow, gentle kiss, as his mouth slanted across hers. He took his time as he took her mouth, with tenderness and longing and a promise of love that was no more than a dream. He gave her more in that kiss than he'd given her in half a dozen sexual encounters. He gave her his soul. And she took it, willingly, gratefully, knowing without words that she was loved.

The rap at the door was sudden, shocking. "Still in there, my dear?" The general called. "I think you've had a long enough shower. We wouldn't want to waste energy, now would we? Come out."

Richard leaned over and turned off the shower. "I'll be out in a minute," she called, knowing her voice shook.

"I have keys to every lock in this house. You're not my type, Cassidy, but that wouldn't stop me from…" His voice halted abruptly, and through the thickness of the door the sound came, soft, whispering.

"Sonny. Where are you, Sonny?"

He didn't curse. "Coming, Essie," he called, ever patient. "You've upset my wife, Cassie," he said. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to punish you for that."

Richard had already moved away from her, the tenderness vanishing. "You've got to get out of here. Now." He yanked open the door, and the murky light of the stormy day filled the room. Francesca lay on the bed, unmoving.

"I can't leave her."

"You won't need to." He moved to the bed, hauled Francesca into a sitting position, and slapped her across the face, twice. Francesca blinked, opening her eyes, her mouth agape with drugged outrage.

"You're developing a talent for that," Cassie said furiously, still shaking.

He glanced back at her. "I don't expect to have a chance to do it again." He rose, moving away. "Get her out of here."

"Come on, Francesca," Cassie murmured, hobbling to the bed and putting an arm under her sister's shoulder. "We've got to leave before the general comes back."

"Yes," Francesca murmured docilely enough, struggling to her feet. The two of them stumbled toward the sliding glass door, pushing it open. Cassie turned, looking for Richard, but he'd disappeared. Without a goddamned word.

The mist had turned to snow once more, coating the lawn, scumming the wooden deck. But neither of them noticed as they staggered across the lawn toward the woods and the steep, treacherous path down off the cliff.

Cassie felt the sudden burn in her shoulder, like a fist punching her, knocking her away from Francesca, throwing her to the ground, the walking stick still clutched in her hand. A moment later she heard the noise, felt the warm and wetness of blood, and she realized she'd been shot.

"I can't let you interfere," the general shouted, walking toward them. Francesca was on her knees in the snow, swaying slightly, and Cassie reached out, trying to protect her, to hold her, when the general fired again.

Her sister's frail body recoiled, and she fell, rolling over the rocks and ice, falling down the steeply sloping lawn. Falling toward the edge of the cliff.

Cassie screamed, lunging for her, but Francesca was moving too fast. She clawed out, desperate, but there was nothing to hold on to. Her sister made no sound at all as she hit the rock ledge, and then she went over, tumbling through the air to oblivion.

The silence was deafening. Cassie struggled to her feet, ignoring the heat and wetness of the blood from her shoulder, ignoring the pain and weakness of her ankle. She clutched the walking stick as she advanced toward the general.

"You killed her," she whispered.

"Richard is to blame," he said calmly, unmoved. "For all of this. If he'd just left us alone, everything would have been fine. Now I'm afraid matters have been precipitated. I can't wait until he shows up. You're going to have to die now, my dear, much as I regret it. You know I admire you very much," he said, advancing on her, slowly, the small, deadly gun in one capable hand. "Your devotion to your father, your blind loyalty to Richard. Your stamina. As I said, you would have made a hell of a soldier. You would have made a hell of a daughter."

"I'm not your type, remember," she shot back, waiting for him to get within range.

"Who knows what would have happened if you were my child?" he mused, coming closer. Almost within reach. Within a few, dangerous yards of the cliff that had taken her sister. "But that's impossible. A weakling like Essie could never have given birth to an amazon like you. The best she could offer was Diana. Lovely though she was, she was hardly worthy of me. I should have had sons."

Cassie looked up, past Scott, and an unearthly calm settled over her.

Richard had found his weapon. A human one. He appeared on the snow-covered deck, Essie Scott's dazed, drugged figure standing limply beside him.

"Would that have made the difference?" Cassie deliberately pitched her voice to reach the deck. "Would you have molested your sons as you molested your daughter?"

"Undoubtedly," said the general calmly, and stopped. "This gun has a greater range than that walking stick, and I have no intention of coming any closer. I'm sorry, my dear." And he raised the gun.

Her next moves were instinctive. She hurled the stick at him, with all her force, ducking and rolling on the ground as the gun spat. In the distance she heard the high, keening wail that came to an abrupt halt, and when Cassie came to a stop she looked up, to see Richard and the general wrestling in the snow, sliding and struggling, moving toward the cliff that had taken Francesca. There was no sign of Essie Scott.

She tried to rise, but couldn't. Blood was everywhere, her blood, and she had used up the last of her reserves. She lay in the snow, watching the vicious confrontation in horror.

It was like nothing she'd seen in the movies or on television. It was violence, scratching, clawing, murderous violence, and despite Richard's youth and size, they were evenly matched. The general had expertise and evil on his side, and they rolled toward the edge of the cliff, coming up hard against the stone barrier. Cassie held her breath, unable to move.

The general struggled to his feet. There was blood on the snow, and he reached down to touch the kitchen knife protruding from his chest.

He yanked it free. Blood was everywhere, but he simply didn't notice, advancing on Richard. "Fitting, don't you think?" he wheezed. "You should have learned you can't win, Richard. I think I'm going to cut your heart out before I toss your body over the cliff. If they ever find you, they'll assume the wolves got to you."

He leaned down, the knife steady, when he jerked. A look of great astonishment covered his face. And then he dove forward, over the barrier, falling end over end down into the valley, the back half of his head blown away.

Essie Scott stood in the snow, gray hair flying, rifle in her hand. "He did lie," she said simply. "He did." And she turned and went back inside the house. In the distance, in the deafening silence, Cassie thought she could hear her humming beneath her breath.

And then she heard another sound. A soft, feminine cry. "Cassie. Help me."

"Francesca!" she screamed, struggling to her feet, but Richard had already moved, leaping over the wall. By the time Cassie had managed to drag herself to the edge, Richard had already reached her. She was caught up against a small clump of trees, her frilly pink outfit stained with blood. But she was alive, and Richard was with her, and it was going to be all right. Everything was going to be all right, she thought, sinking back into the snow. Everything was going to be just fine, as the icy blackness closed in around her, and she surrendered to it, running away for the last time.

«
^

You need to speak to your stepmother, Cassie," Alice announced. "She's being completely unreasonable. And why she's allowing that dreadful contessa woman around is beyond me. Francesca is just fine, she's made a better recovery than you have, and the two of them ought to head back to Venice or Naples or wherever they come from. It's not as if Sean is leaving her a thing in his will. Everything's in trust for the girl."

"As it should be," Cass said wearily. "Alba is Sean's fourth wife, and as such, has just as much right here as you do. And what is Mabry doing that has you in such an uproar?"

"She's starting a fire in the library fireplace, and I was trying to read. It's a blistering hot day, and she's doing it just to drive me from the place. I won't have it. She can't drive me out of here…"

"She certainly can. It's her apartment. Don't you think it's time you went back to Florida? Robert must be lonely without you."

"Robert can take care of himself," Alice said with a sniff. It was just past noon, and she'd only just started drinking.

"Oh, I'm sure he can. I was just worried about your friends."

"My friends?"

"All those widows. Those very attractive, very well-off widows, who'd find an unattached male irresistible. I'm certain they're taking very good care of him. After all, they're used to looking after men."

Alice sat there, dumbstruck, and Cassie wondered why she hadn't thought of it earlier. Lack of energy, doubtless. It would have rid them of Alice's noxious presence days ago, leaving them in blessed peace.

"I need to get back," she said abruptly. "You're absolutely fine, and we both know it, despite your acting like a Victorian heroine, lolling around in bed. It's only for your sake I've been staying, but honestly, Cassie, I think it's time you pulled yourself together. No need to mope. I do think it outrageous that Richard Tiernan had his conviction overturned, but at least that should have pleased you. I think I should be entitled to know why, but no one seems to trust me."

"You were the one who told me he'd been released," Cassie said, leaning back in the bed. "You said new evidence had come to light, and her death was ruled accidental."

"And I don't believe a word of it. I'd like to know why he didn't seem any too happy to be released. You probably even know where he is right now," Alice said accusingly.

"I don't think it matters, do you?" Cass murmured.

"It shouldn't," Alice said shrewdly. "I'm going to pack. Tell your precious stepmother to put out the goddamned fire; I'm leaving."

Cassie pulled herself out of bed, slowly, pulling a robe around her. It had been five weeks since she and Francesca had been taken off the mountain by helicopter. She'd missed her father's funeral, she'd missed Richard's hearing. She'd seen him only once since he'd climbed up the cliff, her sister's wounded body in his arms. He'd left the moment his release had come.

The whole sordid mess had been covered up quite neatly—Cass imagined Sean would have howled in outrage. He'd never believed in discretion, and even the future of two innocent children would probably be fair game in return for publicity.

Richard had been released and the charges had been dropped, she knew that much. Esther Scott had been surprisingly informative in her drug-dazed ramblings, and Jerome Fabiani had had no choice but to let Richard go. That, or have the whole ugly mess come out, and no one was particularly interested in having the details spread across the tabloids, least of all an up-and-coming district attorney who'd been instrumental in convicting an innocent man of murder.

The press had been far from appeased at the vague information released. New evidence had come to light, Fabiani had announced. They were pursuing their investigation.

But Cassie knew that the investigation had been quietly closed. Diana Scott Tiernan's death had been ruled an accident, and no one was willing to push it any further.

And so Richard had left, disappeared from public view, and the tabloids already had a new murder to keep them busy. The tragedy of General Amberson Scott's untimely death merited a discreet three inches in
The New York Times
. No mention that his wife had been institutionalized ever sullied those pristine pages.

She limped down the hallway. Oddly enough, her sprained ankle bothered her more than her gunshot wound. The general had either been a worse shot or a better one than he believed. The bullet had passed through the fleshy part of Cass's upper arm, causing no damage but a nasty scar. Francesca had gotten off even more lightly. The bullet had grazed her scalp, giving her nothing more than a few stitches and one hell of a headache.

Mabry was sitting in front of the fireplace. The room was beastly hot, but unlike Alice, Cassie didn't have any illusions about the reason for the fire. She closed the door behind her and curled up in her favorite green chair, watching, as Mabry fed sheets of manuscript to the flames.

"Are you certain you want to do that?" she murmured.

"Yes." She didn't bother to turn her head. Her silky blond hair glinted in the firelight, and she still looked incredibly graceful, youthful. It was only her soul that was drained.

"Did you read it? Was it any good?"

"It was the best thing he'd done in years. Absolutely brilliant. Richard told him enough of the truth, and Sean figured out the rest. He let the general come into the house, with Francesca there, knowing what he'd done to his own daughter." Mabry shivered for a moment, then managed a weary smile. "No one ever said your father had a speck of decency in him."

"Not a speck," Cassie agreed wryly. "Are you certain you want to do that? It would make a fortune."

"I don't need it," Mabry said. "And I don't want it. Do you?"

"No. Sean will be remembered for
Galway Hell
. He doesn't need this for his literary legacy." Cassie leaned back, closing her eyes for a moment. "Alice is leaving."

"Thank heavens for small miracles. Alba and Francesca are going, too."

"Are they? I'm sorry about that."

"Francesca needs to get back to her own life. She's resilient, but her treatment at the hands of that monster still gives her nightmares. She needs to get back home to a place where she can heal."